Matthew laughed. “I think that is overstating it a bit. I think I’ll look around a while before I settle the tab and pick up my parcel.”
“Of course,” Mattigan sat, patting his arm. “Take your time.”
Matthew drew in a whiff of the air as Mattigan returned to his place at his desk and took up his pen once more. The smell of paper and ink filled his lungs, and for the first time in days, Matthew was at peace. He stepped toward the shelves and heard the low murmurs of other patrons from down the aisles. Book people. The very best of people, he’d always thought.
He trailed his fingertips along the spines of the books, tilting his head to see the titles of the works, the authors. He’d read most of them, he owned most of them, piled on shelves here in his home in London or out in his far more impressive library in Tyndale. Luckily, there was always a supply of authors, scribbling wildly by candlelight to give him something new to enjoy.
If only his favorites would write faster.
He turned the corner of one aisle into the deeper shelves away from the door. As he did so, he came to a sudden halt, for standing at the end of the shelves of books was Isabel Hayes.
She had not seen him, that much was clear. She was too engrossed in the volume she held in her hands, her eyes wide as she turned a page and reached up to twist a loose lock of hair around her fingertip.
She was exquisite in that moment, and he drank her in. Her dark hair framed that pale, slender face to perfection. There was a sweetness to her lips and an innocence to the way her dark brown gaze darted across the line of words before her. She was utterly engrossed, and for the first time he did not think of her like she was at the Donville Masquerade. There she was temptation and pleasure, sin and seduction.
But the Isabel who stood just feet away from him now was something…more. Still tempting, yes. But also lovely and light. He had the sense that he could settle in beside her and read over her shoulder for a few hours. Or discuss whatever she was so interested in until they had worked out the problems of the world. Or at least the plot holes in the story.
His heart had begun to pound and for a moment, he considered just walking away. Only she looked up at him before he could and their eyes locked. He saw abject terror flit through her entire being. She nearly dropped the tome in her hands, and she pivoted to make her own escape.
“Running again?” he asked.
She froze and then slowly turned to face him. She had not the ability to erase emotion from her face, it seemed, for all her fear and guilt and pain were obvious still. She glanced up at him, fighting for bravery even though her hands were shaking. So much so that he heard the faint rustle of the pages from her book.
“N-no,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and repeated the word louder. “No, Your Grace. I was just…stunned to see you here of all places.”
He arched a brow and eased closer a step, though he had no idea why he did it. He should avoid this woman, as he had promised each and every friend that he would. But seeing her here, in this place he considered almost sacred…well, he found he couldn’t walk away so easily.
“Here of all places,” he repeated. “That does not bode well for your judgment of my intelligence.”
Her lips parted and she jerked the book up to her chest, almost like a shield. “I-I didn’t mean that, of course.”
He found himself smiling. Smiling even though he knew she had lied to him. Who she was. What she was.
“Whatdidyou mean then?”
She stared at the floor with a focus any person would envy. “I only meant that this place is so…special to me. An escape. I was shocked to look up and find you here.”
He wrinkled his brow. “That is exactly how I feel about Mattigan’s.”
Her lips parted and she glanced up. Once again those dark brown eyes held his and he was lost for a moment in chocolaty depths. Pulled back into memories of when those eyes were lit with ultimate pleasure.
“Then you must also understand why I wanted to run when I first saw you standing there,” she said.
He leaned on the shelf with his elbow. “I thought you said you weren’t running.”
She shrugged. “I’m not going to treat you like a fool, Your Grace. We both know escape was my intention.”
“And why?” he asked.
“I thought it best,” she said. “Considering how you must—”
She cut herself off with a wavering exhalation of breath, like whatever she might say was painful.
“How I must?”
“Hate me,” she whispered. “I thought I should leave you alone considering how you must hate me.”
Isabel could hardly breathe as she watched Matthew’s face transform with her words. It crumpled and then went softer.
